The 'Goldfish'
by foleste11
Summary: John's peaceful Friday evening is interupted by the Homles brothers and an urgent new case. Mycroft is worried, Sherlock is flustered and John has no idea what's happening, mostly because no one will tell him a blast thing. And then there is a blast. Set during Sherlock Season 3.
1. Friday night interrupted

A/N: I do not own any of the characters, they belong to the BBC/Sir Arthur Conan Doyle/Sir Ian Fleming/MGM/Sony.  
Warnings: course language, drug references, kidnap, torture references. Rated M to be safe.

I have to write this on paper, because I can't type it up. Partly because I'm scared about what Mycroft would do if he found out that I had, but also, what if my computer was hacked? What if someone else found it? Usually, I'm not so worried about protecting the identity our clients. I might change the odd name if I feel it necessary, but the facts of the story are always as they happened. But I dare not type this up. But I need to write it. Writing out our cases has become such a habit that I can't not do it. So good old pen and paper it is. Sure, this story has what I suppose is a happy ending, I mean, none of the good guys die, Sherlock gets a reward, Mycroft still runs the government and we all have one more contact in a very high place (except Mycroft, who already knew him, but whatever. Oh, and Sherlock, of course. And Lestrade? I don't know what Lestrade knows about this stuff. Well I have a new contact anyway. And a new friend, I suppose. And I suppose he has a new safe place, should he ever need us again. Is it really new, though? Not sure. Well, at least he knows he's more than welcome. I don't know why I'm writing all this in brackets, as no one will ever read this but me. I doubt even I will look at it again. I generally don't look back over my old blog posts. Oh hell, still in the brackets.) Right, here's the case:

Friday night, at home with Mary. We were nearly finished dinner; it was a bank holiday long weekend. We didn't have any plans, as she was rostered to be working at the clinic, but I'd been able to get the WHOLE of the long weekend off. It was going to be brilliant doing nothing, with the house to myself. Nearly finished dinner, and my phone buzzes.

_Sherlock Holmes:  
URGENT. Come to Baker St at once._

I ignored it and kept eating. It buzzed again.

_Sherlock Holmes:  
HAVE YOU LEFT YET? COME AT ONCE._

"Do you need to answer that?" Mary asked.

"It's just Sherlock." I replied. "He'll probably just want me to make him a cuppa or get his pen from the kitchen or something ridiculous. He's got Mrs Hudson. It can't be that important."

_Sherlock Holmes:  
COME AT ONCE. URGENT_

"Maybe you should give him a call to find out what's up?" Mary suggested.

"No, he can damn well wait until we finish eating." I said. I'm still quite surprised that Mary is so fond of Sherlock. I mean, the man may be brilliant, but he's a complete dickhead at times too. It was twenty to seven of an evening. What did he expect us to be doing other than having dinner (the fact it was take-away is irrelevant. Our local Indian place is brilliant).

_Call incoming: Sherlock Holmes._

I pressed ignore.

"Are you sure he can wait?"

"It's a Friday night. I'm sure it can wait."

_Call incoming: Mycroft Holmes._

"Oh shit." I sighed.

"You should probably answer that."

"Yeah…" I picked up my phone and swiped to answer. "Mycroft."

_"A car will be outside your house in two minutes. Bring a coat." _He sounded worried or something.

"Wait, Mycroft, what's happened?"

_"I'll tell you when you get to Baker St."_

"Are you there now?"

_"Of course he's here now!"_ Sherlock's voice carried through the phone._ "Why don't you answer my calls?"_

_"Not now, Sherlock, it doesn't matter. John, the car will pull up outside your house any moment now. Tell Mary you shall likely be away all weekend. This is of the upmost importance, John."_

"Yeah, right. Alright." I said, but noticed that Mycroft had already hung up.

"What was that all about?" Mary asked.

"I don't know, but I have to go. I don't think I'll be home tonight." I said, getting up from the table, taking one final mouthful of food. "Mycroft is sending a car."

"What could be so serious that Mycroft Holmes sends a car for you?"

"I don't know, but both he and Sherlock sounded somewhat – in a hurry."

There was a knock at the door. I have to admit, both Mary and I jumped a little as it startled us. "That'll be your ride." She said.

"Yeah." I said. "Can you tell him just a moment, I just need to get my…"

"Things?" Mary suggested kindly.

"Yeah." I replied, and hurried upstairs. I didn't know quite what to take, so I grabbed my gun and shoved it in my pocket, grabbed my wallet, coat and gloves, and ran back downstairs. "See you later." I said to Mary, and gave her a kiss, Mycroft's driver standing in the doorway watching us.

"Yeah, try to – I don't know. Catch the bad guy?"

I smiled. "See ya."

"Have a good weekend." Mary smiled. I followed the driver down the path. He opened the car door for me. I still find that strange. Anthea was, as always, sitting in the backseat, playing on her phone. I wonder if she actually does anything, or just escorts people in the back of Mycroft's vehicles. She probably just sits in Facebook or Instagram or plays Candy Crush or something equally useless all day. Anyway, she was there, and I found it somewhat comforting to see a familiar face. At least I wasn't being abducted. Or if I was, at least it was official.

"So, any idea what's happened?" I asked her as the car took off.

"Yep." She replied coolly, not looking up from her phone.

"Care to expand on that?"

"Nope."

I would have said something else, but I knew I'd get no more response out of her, so we sat in silence the rest of the way to Baker St. We had a remarkably good run (I think Mycroft's car might set off a sequence of green lights? I don't ever recall being stuck in traffic in his car). I got out of the car at Baker St, ran inside and upstairs to 221B. Mycroft standing by the fireplace and Sherlock was pacing, I noticed he was already in his coat and scarf.

"What's happening?" I asked.

"Have you got you gun?" Sherlock asked.

"What? Yes, of course."

"Right then, let's go." Said Sherlock.

"Wait, where are we going?" I asked again.

"John, you have to call me as soon as you return to Baker St." Mycroft said, pulling on his own coat.

"I haven't even left yet…" I said.

"Just come in the morning." Sherlock said, clearly annoyed.

"If he's dead, Sherlock…" Mycroft seemed really concerned. I'd only ever seen him seem concerned about Sherlock.

"He's not going to be dead, Mycroft!" Sherlock snapped at his brother.

"Sorry, who are we talking about? Are we – nope, I have no idea what we're doing."

"Hopefully we're not retrieving a body. Because if it is just a body, I will kill Mycroft."

"It is not my fault, Sherlock."

"No, you can't even keep tabs on him when he WORKS FOR YOU."

"He was on annual leave, Sherlock! I'm not going to have him followed on holidays!"

"Well maybe you should have, because it's taken you three weeks to figure out he's been abducted!"

"And less than 24 hours to find his location."

"If he's still there."

"He'll still be there."

"Sorry!" I cut in, before the Holmes brothers started world war three in Sherlock's living room. "So we're going to rescue someone, right. Well then, Sherlock, shouldn't we be leaving, and you two can finish whatever this is at some other date?"

"Come on John." Sherlock said, stalking out of the room. I followed quickly, looking back at Mycroft, who mouthed _call me. _I nodded, and ran down the stairs after Sherlock.

"What's going on up there?" Mrs Hudson asked, appearing in the hallway.

"Not _now, _Mrs Hudson!" Sherlock snapped.

"Oh, hello, John dear. I didn't think that was you yelling, was it?"

"Hello Mrs Hudson. No, that was the Holmes brothers."

"Oh dear. I hope I don't have to tell your mother about you and Mycroft having a little squabble, Sherlock."

Sherlock hailed a cab. "If Mycroft wasn't such a blundering moron, we wouldn't be yelling."

"And if you actually gave a damn every once in a while," Mycroft hissed, appearing behind me (it made me jump, I didn't hear him come down the stairs), "Then perhaps this wouldn't happen."

"John, get in the cab." Sherlock said.

"What time will you boys be back?" Mrs Hudson asked from the door.

"Later!" Sherlock yelled, and slammed the cab door shut. As the cab took off, I watched Mycroft get into the car that had brought me to Baker St, and Mrs Hudson disappear back inside 221.

"Where to, mate?" the cabbie asked.

"Romford." Sherlock replied.

"Right out the east end what, mate?"

"Yes."

"Where are we going?" I asked quietly.

"On a rescue mission." Was all the reply I got.


	2. Rescue

"Right." I said. Still no real explanation. It was then I noticed that Sherlock had a backpack with him. "What's in the bag?" I asked, as he never carried a bag with him.

"Supplies." Was all the answer I received. I knew something was wrong, but didn't quite know what. I knew that when we arrived at Romford we may find a corpse, and not the hoped for body. I still didn't know who it was, just that it was a 'he', and someone that the Holmes brothers both seemed terribly worried about, who also worked for Mycroft. Does everyone in the government technically work for Mycroft, if Mycroft is the British Government? Does that extend to the armed forces? If so, does that mean that I worked for Mycroft? Bloody hell. Right, ramble over.

I looked out the window on my side of the cab, and Sherlock did the same. This was weird. Usually we talked. About the case. Him complaining about Mrs Hudson or Mycroft or Scotland Yard…

"Why haven't you just called the police?" I asked.

"He works for _Mycroft_, John. _Mycroft_ can't just lose people. And the police - what good ever are the police? I know exactly how unhelpful getting Lestrade involved in this would be."

Whatever this is, I thought. Sherlock was terribly flustered, and I was annoyed that I didn't know more. The trip out to the east end seemed to take a terribly long time, no doubt because the cab was stopped at red lights as often as not, clearly not having the same special status as Mycroft's vehicle. After what felt like an hour (it wasn't) we arrived outside a government housing block.

"Can you wait?" Sherlock asked the cabbie.

"At this time of night, mate?"

"I'll pay double."

"How long?"

"Ten, maybe 15 minutes."

"Then back to Westminster?"

"Yes."

"Alright."

"Come on, John." Sherlock said, and we climbed out the car. I followed him into the building, up the narrow concrete stairs. There was loud music blasting from one of the rooms above us, and frankly, the stairwell smelt like piss. I remember being quite glad I had my gun, as this hardly looked to be the friendliest building in the east end, not least judging by some of the graffiti on the walls. We climbed up to the fourth floor (I forget how many floors the building had. I don't think it's relevant anyway. Sherlock might, but god only knows how Sherlock picks what's important. But we were on floor four). There were two houses? Flats? Whatever, on each floor. Sherlock pulled his lock-picking pen out of his pocket and opened the door to 4A. We entered into a small but clean living/kitchen space. Sherlock turned on the light. The room was very sparse, just a table, two fold-up chairs, a dresser and a blue plastic bin. But the room was warm. There was heating on. Sherlock dashed around the table and pulled the curtains shut. "In here." Sherlock said, leaning against what I correctly guessed as the bedroom door. He opened it and turned on the light.

I think I swore. Again, the room was quite clean and sparsely decorated, with just a double bed taking up most of the room. The curtains in here were already drawn. That, however, was not what made me swear. On the bed was a very, very sick young man, clearly whoever we were supposed to be rescuing.

"We need to call an ambulance." I said, pulling out my phone.

"No!" Sherlock said. He looked – scared. It was strange. Seldom have I seen Sherlock Holmes look as afraid as that. "No, John, put your phone away. You're a doctor. You have to help him."

"Sherlock, I don't even know what's wrong with him!" I hissed.

Then the man's head flopped over to the side and he opened his eyes. "Sh…"

"Shh." Said Sherlock, taking the man's hand. "Don't speak. This is John. We're going to take you home."

"Oh, shit, Sherlock." I exclaimed, seeing the inside of the man's arm. I know I say man, but that's only because I know who he is now. Really though, lying there feverish and shaking, in just his pants, having kicked off the blankets, he looked like a small kid. "Sherlock he's been shooting up."

"No he hasn't, John." Sherlock said. He seemed calmer now. Perhaps because the man was awake. "Look at the bruising. It's poison. They've been using blunt needles. We have to get him back to Baker St." Sherlock let go of the man's hand and opened the bag and pulled out a zip-up hoodie, which he carefully put on the man. I noticed the man wince as Sherlock touched his arms.

"Ah, Sherlock..." I said.

"Not now, John. I don't think they'll be back tonight. I'd say there were here about two, maybe three hours ago. I haven't seen any CCTV, so we should have enough time." Sherlock said as he zipped up the hoodie and pulled the hood up over the man's head. Then he pulled a pair of glasses out of the backpack and placed the gently on the man's face. The man shut his eyes and re-opened them slowly as his world came back into focus.

"Sherlock."

"John, we have to get him out. We'll have to turn the lights out behind us. Don't worry about fingerprints or anything, Mycroft's people will clean this place up once we leave. They can't trace him back to us. Or maybe they will. It might make things more interesting."

"Sherlock…"

Sherlock pulled the man up into a sitting position. "Don't you think this is a bit easy, John? Oh well. Take him under the arm, will you."

"Sherlock!" I yelled.

"John we have to do this now!"

"You're not looking!" I cried. "There are wires under the mattress!" I pointed.

"Oh…." Sherlock's eye's went wide. He let go of the man.

"Sh…"

Sherlock grabbed the man by the shoulders. "It's pressure plated, isn't it? If you leave the bed, it will blow."

The man's head drooped down.

"Am I right?" Sherlock shook him.

"Yes." He mouthed.

Sherlock let go of the man and stepped back, running his fingers through his hair. "John I don't know what to do." He admitted. Poor Sherlock, he looked terrible and sounded so panicked.

"Can't you disarm it?" I asked, trying to be helpful. Sometimes I wonder why Sherlock didn't befriend a member of the bomb disposal unit rather than a doctor, but I digress.

"Not without moving the mattress, which will set it off anyway…"

"Sh…"

"Can you stop it?" Sherlock asked, turning back to the man. The man made a slight movement of his shoulders that I took to be a shrug. "Yes, but not in this condition?" I noticed a gentleness in Sherlock's voice. The corner of the man's mouth twitched, which I took to be all he could manage for a smile. He reached out and took Sherlock's arm. I could see the effort it was taking him to do such a small thing, and it was painful to watch. He wrapped his long fingers around Sherlock's bony wrist. "What?" Sherlock and the man looked intently at each other. "Wrist? Watch? Time? Timer! Oh, it's on a timer! How long?" The man moved his shoulders again. "Right." Said Sherlock. "John, go and open the front door." I went and did so and was back in the room in a couple of seconds.

"Now what?" I asked. "Because, honestly Sherlock, I still have no idea…"

"John, whatever happens, keep moving. You have to get him out. Get in the cab and get back to Baker St. Call Mycroft. He can help you."

"Woh, ok, hold on, what the hell is happening?"

"John, we have to get him out."

"What is going on? You're a sociopath! You generally don't care about other people!" I said. That was a bit unfair, really, as I knew that Sherlock did care, but since I still had no idea who the poor sick bloke was, I didn't know why Sherlock should care so much about him.

"Please, John." Sherlock looked at me. "Take him under the arm, but for goodness sake, don't sit on the bed, or the extra weight will most likely set to bomb off too."

"Shouldn't we call the police now?"

"I messaged Lestrade as we pulled up."

"You didn't know about the bomb then."

"Look at this building, John. Lestrade and his crew could have a field day here. The average response time is twenty minutes, and when I message, Lestrade actually comes. John, we have to go _now_."

"I. Don't. Know. What's. Happening!"

"Just help me! Take him by the arm!"

I did as Sherlock commanded and took the sickly man under the arm.

"Can you carry him?" Sherlock asked.

The man was ridiculously thin, but carrying him down four flights of narrow steps was a bit of an ask. "Can't you help?"

"It doesn't matter. Right, when I count to three, lift him up and run, John. Run. I'll be right behind you." Sherlock looked at the man. "You have to hold on." The man closed his eyes. "Ready?" Sherlock asked.

"I don't understand."

"On three. Two, one."

I pulled the man to his feet and ran, half dragging half carrying him out of that tiny flat. He cried out in pain, and I heard Sherlock yell to keep running. I went down the stairs as quickly and as carefully as I could. I could hear Sherlock's shoes on the concrete stairs just behind me. I was just about to turn onto the last set of stairs when a blast happened above. I fell forward, down the last three steps onto the landing, dropping the sickly man, and ending up with Sherlock landing on top of me.


	3. Back to Baker St

"What the hell!" I yelled.

"Get up John! Get up!" Sherlock yelled, pulling me to my feet. The lights had gone out and there was dust and smoke filling the air. "John, I've got him! Just run and get in the cab."

I ran down the last flight of stairs, with Sherlock carrying the young man behind me. Once we got outside, we re-arranged ourselves, Sherlock and I each taking the man under one arm, and carried him across to where our cab was still waiting. People were now flooding out into the street, and I could hear the wail of police and fire sirens. We three piled into the cab.

"Bloody hell!" exclaimed the cabbie.

"Just drive!" Sherlock said.

"Still back to Baker St?" asked the cabbie, obviously having caught a glimpse of our latest addition.

"Yes! Go, before they close the street!"

The cab took off, avoiding any traffic.

I settled into my seat, and looked at the sickly man. He sat in-between Sherlock and myself, leaning against Sherlock. I gently took the man's wrist and felt for a pulse. It was much too rapid. "Sherlock, he needs to go to hospital."

"No."

"Sherlock, he's really sick."

"You're a doctor. You can fix him."

"Oh, look, I don't even know what's wrong with him!" I hissed. The cabbie must have thought us mad. We'd just come running out of a building in which a bomb had just gone off, carrying a terribly thin man in just a hoodie and pants.

"He's been poisoned." Sherlock said.

"Yes, but with what?"

"I don't know. I'll figure it out once we get back to Baker St."

"Sherlock, he's running a fever of goodness knows what, his heartbeat is much too rapid, he's shaking, starved, his breathing is all out of whack…"

"He's asthmatic."

"How do you know he's not just sick?"

"I'd give him ventolin, but like you said, John, we don't know what he's been poisoned with. I'm not going to give him ventolin if there's any chance it could kill him."

"Oh god, Sherlock." At that stage, I didn't know what to do, so I just sat there and stared out the window. Sometimes arguing with Sherlock Holmes is just not worth the effort. The return journey to Baker St didn't seem to take half as long as the trip out to the east end, and soon enough we were pulled up out the front of 221. Sherlock payed the cabbie before we carried the sick man inside. Mrs Hudson appeared as we were awkwardly moving up the stairs.

"Oh, you're home already boys! Would you like me to make you a cuppa, or…"

"Not now, Mrs Hudson!" Sherlock snapped.

"Oh, Sherlock dear, you're not bringing in your homeless friends now are you?"

We'd reached the top of the stairs, Sherlock kicked the door open. "Take him to the bathroom." He grumbled. I dragged the man into the bathroom, and carefully placed him on the floor. In the proper lighting of Sherlock's bathroom, I could see just how young and how sick this man truly was. Sherlock appeared in the doorway, coat and scarf removed. "What do I do, John?" he asked.

I must admit, the question surprised me. "Call an ambulance?" I suggested.

"No. I've already said no to that."

"Well I don't know then, Sherlock! We need to know what's been used to poison him."

"Oh come on John." Sherlock said. "It could be anything from paint thinner to some lead-based…I don't know what!"

"But definitely not cocaine?"

Sherlock looked at me intently. "Definitely not. Have you got a needle?"

"What?"

"So I can take a blood sample."

"What – why would I have any needles? You're the bloody junkie, Sherlock!"

Sherlock looked a bit hurt, and I suppose I shouldn't have said that, but sometimes he just really gets to me. "Just help him." He said.

The man on the floor moaned and pulled his knees up to his chest. I knew what I had to do. "Where's he going to sleep?" I asked.

"On the couch."

"Not your room?"

"It's easier to keep an eye on him in the lounge."

That was true. "Right. Sherlock, I need you to make the couch up into a bed for him. Sheets, blankets, the whole set up. Then bring me some clean pyjamas for him. And a bottle of water. I need the water first."

"Thank-you, John." Sherlock said.

"Water, Sherlock!" I called. He left the bathroom, and I began running the bath. I had little idea as to what to do with this poor man lying in the foetal position on the floor, but getting him cleaned up seemed a good place to start. The bath water was only about four inches deep, but I decided that was deep enough, not wanting to accidently drown the man. I sat him up and removed the glasses and hoodie, before lifting him into the bath. "Oi, you have to stay awake, alright?" I said to him. "Just for a little bit longer. Then you can sleep, alright?"

He just moaned. Sherlock reappeared with the bottle of water. He looked at the man and absent-mindedly handed me the bottle. "Go and make up the couch, Sherlock." I said.

Sherlock just nodded and left again.

I opened the bottle of water and put it to the sick man's mouth. He took a few sips, but dribbled most of it down his front. Not that it mattered, being in the bath and all. It was then I realised that I didn't yet know his name. His body gave a shudder.

"S…"

"Sorry?" I asked.

His head flopped forward. "Sick." He muttered.

"Oh hell." I said. "SHERLOCK! Bring me a bucket! Now!" I yelled. I held him up so that even if he was sick, it would be on the tiles, and not on me. "Sherlock!"

Sherlock appeared again with a large pasta bowl. "Will this do?"

"It will have to. Give it here." I said. Sherlock handed me the bowl. I put it under the man's chin as his body convulsed and he was sick into the bowl. Not that he brought much up, it was mostly just dribble, as I assumed he hadn't eaten properly for quite some time. Mycroft had said earlier that evening how long he'd been missing for… I handed the bowl back to Sherlock, who looked quite disgusted. "It's just sick, Sherlock."

Sherlock nodded. The man moaned.

"It's alright." I said. "Just stay awake a little longer." I looked at Sherlock. "What's his name?" I asked.

"It doesn't matter." He said.

"I can't just not call him anything, Sherlock!"

"It doesn't matter, John!" Sherlock snapped, and stalked off.

I wanted to go and slap Sherlock, as it damn well did matter, but it wasn't worth arguing. I gently bathed the man and washed his hair, then sat him on the floor while I dried him and brushed his teeth. Sherlock reappeared with pyjamas and pants, but didn't linger and didn't speak to me. I bandaged the man's bruised forearms before dressing him, then carried him out into the lounge. Mrs Hudson had been up, because there was a kettle of tea and three cups on a tray along with biscuits, plus the couch had been made up into a very inviting looking bed, with a bucket and towel next to it, just in case, along with another bottle of water. "Sherlock, can you pull back the blankets, please?" I asked. Sherlock had been lurking near the fireplace, but in a couple of his long strides, he was beside me, pulling back the blankets. I lay the sick man down. He moaned at the motion, rolled onto his side and pulled his knees up to his chest. I covered him with the blankets. "You can sleep now. You're safe here." I said, but the poor sod was already asleep.


	4. Missed messages

Sherlock had gone and sat in his chair. I noticed he had removed his jacket and shoes and was now in his dressing gown. I finally got around to removing my coat, and sat down in my chair opposite my friend. Sherlock looked to be in his mind palace, so I decided not to disturb him. I pulled out my phone.

_8 missed calls.  
15 new messages._

Bloody hell.

_Phone missed  
Mycroft Holmes (3)  
Mary Mortsen (2)  
Greg Lestrade (2)  
Molly Hooper_

_Messages  
Mycroft Holmes (6):  
John, I know you are home. Call me._

_John, please call me ASAP_

_John, call me ASAP_

_John, where are you? CALL ME_

_John, please call me._

_John please please call me when you get this._

_Mary Mortsen:  
There was an explosion in the east end. Are you guys involved? Hope everything's alright. X_

_John, please let me know you're alright. X_

_Hi John, look, just give me a call when you can. X_

_Greg Lestrade:  
Fuck. Did you cause that explosion? I fucking hope not. _

_Tell Sherlock he's right, but he's a damn prick._

_John, I could fucking kill Sherlock. Are you home? Call me._

_Where the hell are you guys? Call me. I need to know you're not dead._

_Molly Hooper:  
Is everything alright? If you need anything, just give me a buzz. Nothing's too weird, though you probably know that by now. :) _

I took a couple of deep breaths. I decided to call Molly in the morning. I was sure to know something else about the poor bugger on the couch by then, and Molly might be able to get me whatever I need from Barts. But who to call first?

"I'm having a shower." Sherlock said, standing up.

"Yeah, alright." I said. "I'll just sit here and watch…what is his name, Sherlock?"

"I doesn't matter."

"This is ridiculous, Sherlock." I said. I was getting tired and quite fed up with the mystery. Sherlock just ignored me and stalked off to the bathroom. The door slammed and a few moments later I heard the water running. I got up and checked the sick bloke's pulse. Still too fast. His breathing was still all over the place. He was still feverish and shaking. I didn't even want to give him Panadol in case he had a reaction. "Sorry mate, but you're just going to have to hold in there." I said, then went and sat back down. I called Mary.

"_John!"_

"Hi. Sorry it's so late."

_"It's alright. I'm just watching telly in bed. Everything alright?"_

I looked at the couch. "Not really."

_"Anything I can do to help?"_

"I don't – no. Not tonight."

_"It's alright, John. I'll let you go, you sound like you need some sleep. Just, were you guys involved in that explosion in Radford?"_

"Huh? Oh, yeah, we rescued the, ah, victim."

_"Oh, right. Brilliant. Well, I hope you get a big reward_." I could tell Mary was smiling. She sounded proud. I liked that.

"We'll see." I said. "Hey, have you heard about any casualties or anything?" I asked. I hadn't seen or heard any news.

_"No. Apparently everyone got out. A few people were a bit shaken, but nothing serious really. Quite lucky, I suppose."_

"Yeah." I said. _Or quite suspicious_. "Well, you get some sleep. I don't know how much I'll get here."

_"Well don't you boys stay up all night."_

"Love you."

_"Love you more." _

I hung up. After talking to Mary I didn't want to make any more calls, I just wanted to curl up in my armchair and fall asleep. But I suppose I owed them a phone call.

_"Oh, thank god you're bloody alright. Why the hell won't Sherlock answer his bloody phone?"_

"Nice to speak to you too, Greg."

_"Yeah, look mate, did you guys cause that explosion or what_?"

"No, we rescued the intended victim. Then the explosion – exploded. "

_"Oh. Right. Yeah, well that's good. Is the victim alright?"_

"Not really."

_"Oh. Ahm, look, I might have to pop round in the morning, yeah? I need to talk to Sherlock and he's not answering me, so…"_

"Yeah, sure. Maybe around lunchtime?"

_"Yeah, that's great. Right ho, thanks John. You're at Baker St too, yeah?"_

"Yep."

_"Right. Good. Well, see you tomorrow, John."_

"Bye." I hung up. One phone call to go.

_"Hello John."_ Mycroft sounded tired.

"Sorry it took me so long to call."

_"Is he alright?"_

"Who? Sherlock or…."

_"What happened to Sherlock?"_

"What? Oh, nothing. He seems a bit, shaken or something. He's in the shower."

_"Oh, he'll be fine. And Q?"_

"Who?"

_"Q."_

"Queue?"

_"Q, John. Q for Quartermaster. The skinny chap."_

"His name is Q?"

_"No John, no one is called a letter of the alphabet. It's his title."_

"Oh. Right…"

_"How is he?"_

"Umm…"

_"John."_

"Not very well. He needs to go to hospital. He's been poisoned but god only knows what with. He's sick and feverish and his breathing's all over the place and…"

_"No. No hospitals. John, I trust you more than any doctor anywhere else. I will be there in the morning. Just keep him comfortable, John."_

"He's asleep on the couch."

_"Good. Try to get some rest."_

"Not bloody likely."

_"Good night, John."_

"Yeah." I said, and hung up. I put my phone down on the side table. At some stage, whilst talking to Mycroft, my tiredness had left me. Q. Of course, Mycroft had said earlier that this bloke worked for him. But working for Mycroft…was this guy MI6? It would explain all the secrecy. But the pitiful, sick young man on the couch hardly looked like a super spy. I poured myself a cup of tea, and despite it now being lukewarm, it was good anyway. I had two biscuits, and then Sherlock reappeared in his pyjamas.

"I spoke to Mycroft." I said.

"Fine." Said Sherlock sitting down.

"He said that the man's name is Q."

"His title is Q."

"Is that what we call him?"

Sherlock shrugged. "You need to shower."

"Let me finish my cuppa."

Sherlock ignored me and picked up his phone. I downed the rest of my drink then got up and put the cup in the sink, before going into the bathroom. I shut the door, and finally had a look at myself in the mirror. I looked tired, it now being after midnight, and I'd been awake since half six that morning. Plus I had a lot of white dust in my hair and on my clothes from the explosion. I hadn't noticed that when I'd been in the bathroom earlier with Q, but then again, I suppose I'd been more worried about him than myself.

When I came out of the bathroom, towel around my waist (I hadn't even thought to bring my pyjamas down. I keep a spare pair plus an assortment of clothes in my old room at Baker St), Sherlock was on the phone.

"No, well I couldn't call earlier. No….Yes, we'll he's asleep…No. He's asleep. I can't put him on…I don't know. John's here."

I thought for a moment he had seen me, but he was just talking to whoever it was. Judging by the patronising tone, I assume it was Mycroft. Who else would Sherlock be speaking to at twenty past one in the morning?

"John can take care of him….Well we don't know yet, do we… Yes, I know. … I'll tell him. … No. Do not come to London. It will be fine. Yes. Fine. … Yes, goodnight mummy. Bye." Sherlock hung up. I decided to make my presence known.

"Um, I'm just going to go and get dressed. We shouldn't really leave him. Do you want to take first watch?"

"Sure. Goodnight, John."

"Sherlock, you actually do have to keep an eye on him. If he's sick or wakes up or anything, call for me straight away, ok?"

"I can look after him, John."

"Yeah. Right, of course. Look, I'll see you in a couple of hours, ok?"

"Yes. Goodnight, John."

"Right." I said, and headed up to the top floor. As I pulled on my pyjamas, I began to think about Sherlock's odd conversation on the phone with his mother. I don't really know much about Mr and Mrs Holmes. Maybe she'd heard about the blast in the east end on the news? And why did she seem to be asking about the mysterious Q? I didn't know, and, frankly, at that time, didn't much care. I got into bed and slept until quarter past eight.


	5. Revelation

I was surprised that I'd slept in that much, and a bit annoyed at Sherlock for not coming and waking me earlier. I pulled a jumper on over my pyjamas and headed downstairs. I was in desperate need of a cuppa, and was hopeful that Mrs Hudson may have provided the goods. As I wandered down the stairs, I could hear voices coming from within Sherlock's apartment.

"No, no, that wasn't it." Said a voice I didn't recognise.

"Yes it was." Protested Sherlock.

There was an odd noise I took to be a laugh. "No it wasn't, Sherlock!"

"Don't make me call Mycroft." Was Sherlock _teasing_?

"It wasn't!"

"Good morning." I said, opening the door to the lounge. Sherlock was exactly where I left him, in his pyjamas, on his chair.

"Hello John." He smiled. For having had no sleep, he was strangely chirpy. "I don't believe you've met a properly conscious Professor X."

"Oh, Sherlock." The young man on the couch rolled his eyes. He was still lying on his side, with his knees pulled up to his chest. He was terribly pale and sweaty with fever, and generally looked bloody horrible, but he was properly awake, which I suppose was something. The man reached out a hand. "I do have a doctorate, but I am not a professor. You're supposed to call me Q." he said.

"John Watson." I said, shaking his hand. You can tell a lot by someone's handshake, and I could tell by his that he was very unwell. His hand was hot and clammy, his grasp incredibly weak, and his arm dropped as soon as I let go of his hand. He pulled it back under the blankets and wrapped it around his chest.

"I like your jumper." Q or X or whatever letter he was called said.

"Oh, really X." Sherlock moaned.

"Q." corrected the alphabet soup. "And I don't understand what you and Mycroft have against knitwear."

"Mycroft said he was coming to visit this morning." I remembered.

"He was here about an hour ago." Alphabet soup said.

"Sherlock, why didn't you wake me?" I asked.

Sherlock shrugged.

"Right, I'm going to put the kettle on." I said, and walked into the kitchen. Now that alphabet soup was awake, there was something else about him that I couldn't quite place.

"This is John Watson we're talking about, Prof." I overheard Sherlock whisper to the sick man.

"Sherlock, I _am_ National Security."

"Well you're not exactly very good at it."

"Sherlock, …"

I don't know what they said next, because I popped into the bathroom for a wiz.

The jug boiled. "Anyone else for a cuppa? Coffee?" I called, back in the kitchen.

"Please." Said Sherlock.

"I'd like something too please. Same as Sherlock is fine." said the alphabet soup while I was making the tea for Sherlock.

"You don't like your tea as strong as mine." Sherlock said.

"And when did you last make me tea?"

"Have we got any Earl Grey, John?" Sherlock asked as I carried him his mug and handed it to him.

"No. Mrs Hudson might, but, no. Look." I said to the alphabet soup. "I don't understand what's going on. I don't know who you are, and I'm sorry, but I'm not bloody calling you a letter of the alphabet. This case is weird enough, I…"

"Xavier Holmes." The sick man said.

"Sorry?" I asked.

"Xavier Alistair Maxwell Holmes. Currently Quartermaster at MI6. Didn't Mycroft say he told John this, Sherlock?"

"I don't listen to Mycroft." Sherlock said, sipping his tea.

"Wait." I said. "Wait, wait, wait."

"What?" Sherlock asked.

"Xavier _Holmes_."

"Yes." Said the sick man.

"You're - are you two – are you – and Mycroft…"

"Well, we'd _like_ for Mycroft to be adopted." The sick man said. Sherlock chuckled.

"You're - you're _brothers!" _I exclaimed.

"It's not that much of a revelation, John." Sherlock said.

"Sherlock – oh my god. You have a little brother. Sherlock – bloody hell!" I didn't know what to say.

"Please don't yell." Said Xavier. "It makes my head hurt."

"John, go and make your tea, and a just the same as me for X. We'll get more teabags later. Then sit down and we'll explain."

"Yeah." I said. "Yeah, because this is a _lot_ to explain!" I went and made the drinks for myself and Xavier, then sat down in my chair. "Right. Explain." I said to Sherlock. Of course, now that I knew, I could see how alike the two men were, black hair, blue eyes, skinny, although Xavier was sickly so.

"When we first met, John," Sherlock began, "Xavier was in Washington. There was no reason for me to mention him. You weren't ever going to cross paths, and unlike Mycroft, he doesn't try to run my life. He didn't matter, John."

"Sherlock, he's your brother. Of course he mattered."

"No, I didn't really." Xavier said. "I was overseas, working for the CIA, in case you were wondering. Well, working for Mycroft in the CIA."

"See, John? He was abroad. He was irrelevant. Then Mycroft got him the job at MI6."

"I was wasted in America." Xavier smiled.

"True." Said Sherlock. It was strange to hear him complementing someone. "X was brought back to London at the start of 2012. We planned to have you and he meet at some stage, John, but, well, things got a little out of hand."

"You mean you faked your death." I said. I was feeling pretty angry at this point. I think I needed breakfast. I sipped my tea.

"John…" Sherlock said.

"No," I said. "No, Sherlock, you don't get it."

"John."

"No, no, no. None of you get it! Sherlock please just tell me: do you have any more siblings?"

"No."

"Extended relations I should know about?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"So it's just you and Mycroft and alphabet soup over there?"

"Yes."

I took a deep breath. "Right. So, Sherlock, because I know you do not understand why I'm cross at you, I'm going to go upstairs and get dressed. Then I'm going to the bakery around the corner and I will buy some bread, and get myself something hot for breakfast. And some coffee. Then pop into Sainsbury's. Then I will call Molly, because I need some medical supplies because we need to know what is wrong with X, Y or Z over there. Or at least have some idea. Ok?"

"John, I…"

"No. No. I'll be back." I swallowed the last of my tea, stood up and marched upstairs. Now, I know I wasn't being very fair on Sherlock, and especially not on poor old Xavier Holmes, who was bloody crook. I shouldn't have let Sherlock upset me so much, but he had. I was bloody pissed off. He had a little brother! How did he not think that that was important to tell me? Even if said brother did have some highly important and confidential job at MI6. Bloody Sherlock. Of course, I felt pretty stupid myself, because as I was dressing I remembered that Mycroft _had_ more or less said who 'Q' was on the phone last night. Blimey, the Holmes family are bonkers.


	6. There's also the case

I felt much better when I returned to Baker St after my trip out to the shops. With a sausage roll and most of a coffee in me, I felt like I could face a battalion of Holmes brothers. I wondered if this one was as mental as the older two. I supposed so, considering that he probably wouldn't have his presumably flash job at MI6 on account of nepotism alone.

"Ok, I have all the essentials. Tea, milk, bread, biscuits, crisps, butter, jam, chocolate was on special, two £3, and, oh I forgot the bloody sugar." I said, as I entered the flat via the kitchen.

"John?" Sherlock asked.

I put the food on the kitchen table. "Mrs Hudson will have some."

"John?"

"What?" I asked.

"Have you called Molly yet?"

"No. Why?"

"Because, ah…"

I heard a long low moan that made my stomach tighten. I raced into the lounge and found Xavier Holmes right where I left him, but clutching at his stomach. Sherlock was kneeling awkwardly next to him. "Sherlock, _now_ can we call an ambulance?" I asked.

"No, John, please just fix him." Sherlock said.

I hurried over to the couch and felt Xavier's forehead. He was burning. "Xavier. Look at me. It's alright." Xavier's eyes rolled around. "Sherlock, what the hell happened?" I snapped.

"We were talking, and then he just went quiet and..."

"Xavier, stay with me, come on, it's alright. Sherlock call a bloody ambulance!" I yelled.

"John, I _can't_."

"Sherlock he could be dying!"

"Then save him!"

"I. Don't. Know. What's. Wrong with him!"

"He's been poisoned."

"Thank-you, captain obvious, but we have no bloody idea what with!"

"Just help him!" Sherlock seemed to be begging. Now I understood why Sherlock was so frantic last night. This was his baby brother. And right now, he was shaking and burning with fever and semi-conscious on the couch. I never had patients in this condition this at the clinic and hadn't seen anyone so ill probably since my army days. "Right. Sherlock, I'm going to call Molly, ok?" I asked. I needed help, and Molly was really the only one who could provide it.

"Ok." Said Sherlock. He looked properly concerned.

"Ok, good." I said. I pulled my phone out of my pocket and called Molly. While the phone was dialling, I grabbed a face washer from the bathroom, wet it, then went and handed it to Sherlock. Thankfully, he knew what to do with it. "Hello Molly."

_"Oh. Hello John. How are you?"_

"I'm, erm, ok. Molly, look, we need your help."

_"Is Sherlock there?"_

"Yes. But Molly, look. I need you to bring me whatever supplies you can."

_"Is someone hurt? Is it Sherlock?"_

"Yes. No. Wait, look, we've got a – client, and he's really sick. Really, really sick. Sherlock's fine."

_"Why don't you call an ambulance?"_ That old chestnut again.

"Look, we just can't. How soon can you get here?"

_"I can leave now, I suppose. Or, you know, in a couple of minutes?"_

"Yeah, that's fine. Just as soon as you can."

_"Ok, right, well, I hope everyone's ok."_

"Yep, thanks Molly. You're a gem."

_"Bye John."_

"Bye." I hung up. "Molly's on her way." I said to Sherlock. He nodded. Poor Xavier lay shaking on the couch. "Should we call Mycroft?" I asked. Sherlock just shrugged. I decided not to. I paced around the apartment for a couple of minutes, fretting, but at least Xavier wasn't getting any worse. Sherlock finally spoke up.

"We still have the case, John."

I stopped pacing. "What case?"

"_The_ case."

"Sherlock, I'm really not following."

"Who kidnapped X? Why? Where are they now?"

"Wait, I thought you and Mycroft already knew of that."

"Why would we?" Sherlock asked.

"Well you knew where to find Xavier last night."

"But we know nothing else, John."

I sighed. "Shit." I sat down in my chair. "So what do we do?"

"I'm not quite sure." Sherlock admitted. "We need to talk to X."

"Well that's not going to be happening at the moment." I said, looking at Xavier, who seemed to be asleep.

"John, he could be in danger. No one should know who he is as Q. So if he was kidnapped as Q, why? Most likely for information, so why poison him? If they wanted to kill him, why not just get it over with? Why keep him alive for three weeks? But then why was the bed rigged to blow if he got up? And if they _did_ know that he is Q, the whole bloody secret service could be compromised, and Mycroft will have a right mess on his hands if that's the case."

"Bloody hell." I said. I think I was following what Sherlock was saying. None of this had occurred to me so far. Honestly, I was still getting over the fact that there was a third Holmes brother, let alone trying to consider the huge potential threat to national security this sick kid could be.

"And then there's the other option, John." Sherlock continued.

"Which is…" I had no idea.

"That he wasn't kidnapped as Q, but as Xavier Holmes. Officially, Xavier Holmes has a minor role in the IT department at the Foreign Office."

"So similar to Mycroft's 'minor' role in the British Government?"

"Exactly. John, there is no reason to kidnap Xavier Holmes unless it is to try and get to Mycroft or myself. By all official reports, he's a nobody. There's no reason to kidnap Xavier Holmes."

"Right." I said, thinking I understood. Duel identities are bloody confusing.

Sherlock fluffed up his hair. "But John, if they know that Xavier Holmes _is_ Q – I don't know, John. I don't know what that means. I need to go back where we found him."

"It was blown-up."

"Yes, thank-you, John, I do remember that." Sherlock snapped. He was getting narky, and I assumed it was mostly because he looked to have gotten no sleep at all last night. "I need to go back there, in my head, but it's not complete. I can't see it properly, John. Mycroft's bloody right."

"Right about…"

"Caring is not an advantage, John! I care too much about Xavier, and last night I nearly got him, you and myself killed. And now I can't remember that entire apartment!"

"I can." A voice said weakly. Xavier was awake. If possible, he looked worse than before. I assumed Sherlock's yelling had woken him. "I want to be sick." He said. I jumped up and grabbed the bucket next to the couch and held Xavier forward. He gagged a couple of times and a bit of dribble and the tiny bit of tea he'd had earlier came out, but that was all. I was suddenly thankful as I realised that this could be much worse. At least he wasn't throwing up blood.


End file.
